


A Sweet Tooth

by Rusalkii



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rusalkii/pseuds/Rusalkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeyne wished that she could enjoy these small pleasantaries, these small escapes from the long hours in the tower, or in her room, but sitting in the place that she had so enjoyed as a child brought memories to her mind, and then tears to her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sweet Tooth

The great hall was crowded and lively with chatter, from the high table she saw a blur of faces in the dark that were unrecognisable, and smiles filled with crooked teeth were spread at every glance. The sound of clattering china mingled in as servants brought and collected many steaming pots and smoking dishes to and from those that were seated. Some leek soup was served, followed by venison pies that were stuffed with carrots, bacons and mushrooms, and lashed with gravy. Such hearty northern dishes that she had craved for so long during her time at King’s Landing, and thereafter. Dishes, now, that were only ashes in her mouth, sticking to the roof of it like a thick grease.  
  
  
The heat was unbearable, and  Jeyne, _no Arya_ , felt sweat prickling and pooling at the small of her back beneath her corset. Her meat was overchewed with every bite, and swallowing was difficult without water to wash it from her throat. Her Lord, her husband, Ramsay Bolton, had only allowed her wine. She had sipped from her goblet gratefully at first, hoping that the sensations would ease her discomfort, but it was like hot vinegar, and together with the ashes it sat too heavy in her belly.  
  
  
Jeyne wished that she could enjoy these small pleasantaries, these small escapes from the long hours in the tower, but sitting in the place that she had so enjoyed as a child brought memories to her mind, and then tears to her eyes. _You must blink them back, each and every one_. She had only eaten half of her main course, and found that she was only chasing gravy around her plate with her fork. Watching as it spooned before the liquid fell between the gaps.  
  
  
"Is it not to your taste, wife?" A voice beside her, silent until now, whispered. She feared she almost dropped her cutlery, but hoped it went unnoticed.  
  
She glanced to her husband, and saw his pale eyes, like two chips of dirty ice, puncture into the back of her skull. His hair was long and dark, and fell across the hood of his pale pink cloak that wrapped his shoulders.  
  
"It - It is lovely, my Lord. My - my love." She lied. "But I would leave room for desert."  
  
"Oh, a sweet tooth?" Ramsay half-smiled, before demanding for a kitchen wench to bring them fruit tarts. His garnet earring, red as blood, flashed through his hair as it drank the fire light.  
  
The fruit tarts, filled with blackberries and laced with cream, were no better, but she forced them down. Her gut felt large beneath the corset especially, the steel bones forcing it all up into her chest. She risked another gulp of wine, to silence a wretch that threatened to spill.  
  
The new Lord of Winterfell did not speak to her again as the feasting and drinking continued. Though he did move a white-hot hand to her thigh, squeezing it possesively, as he spoke to the other Lords and castellans seated at their table.  
  
 _I must learn to love him._ She thought, as she glanced at it. The contact was much like branding. Ramsay pressed a thumb painfully to one side, and dragged his little finger down the underside; yet she felt no affection there. His nails were clean but bitten down rough, and the skin was blotchy. _He is my husband, and I swore vows before the gods_. She thought of Sansa, then, and how she might have felt when she had been forced to marry the Imp. _I wonder if her husband had as cruel a hand as mine_. Jeyne could remember all the stories they had shared, about brave knights saving fair maidens from monsters, and entrancing them with their beautiful songs; playing wonderous music with jewel-encrusted gold and silver harps. Marriage had meant love. Love had meant warmth, flowers, kissing in the rain, and riding ahorse into sunsets. How stupid they had both been. _Such stupid, naieve, little girls_. She looked to the ceiling to blink away the tears that bit at her eyelids.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this (very small) piece on a whim a few weeks ago, but I'm very tempted to write more which would end it up with a much more mature rating & warnings.


End file.
